


Apéritif

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 14:20:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4525275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil passes the time at a boring dinner by teasing Legolas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apéritif

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “During a meeting/meal/feast with lots of guests, Thranduil toes off his boots and uses his bare foot/feet to rub Legolas to climax under the table” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/14338.html?thread=26199298#t26199298).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Feasts in Imladris are dreadfully boring, dry as they are, or at least, they always seem to be when Thranduil’s visiting. He allows himself to lounge back in his seat at the head of the long table, Elrond across at the other. Their children sit between, Elrond’s twin sons flanking him and Legolas on Thranduil’s left, Arwen on his right. The dinner portion is mostly over, elaborate desserts sitting out that would go far better with a bit of wine. Elrond makes it duller by allowing his sons to ramble on, describing every last wholly uneventful nuance of the lands to Imladris’ northern borders. The others watch with patience, but Thranduil tries not to sneer.

In truth, it isn’t just their drudgery that grieves him, nor even the disturbing lack of wine. The worst of it is the treasure he brought with him: Legolas _stares_ at Elladan’s lips as they move. Thranduil’s occasionally drawn his attention back, purposely brushed hands with him or whispered his name, and Legolas always looks to his father when called. But it’s infuriating that Thranduil should have to resort to such tactics, and so he decides something greater must be done. 

This is a game they’ve played at home, around slow-witted drunkards like the elves that guard their cellars, but never yet on the road. It’s about time they started. Thranduil toes off one boot with practiced skill and turns ever so slightly in his chair, half facing his young prince. 

His leg crosses the distance. His foot lands idly atop Legolas’, toes pressing into Legolas’ ankle through his tights. Legolas’ breath hitches almost imperceptibly, lids lowering and eyes darting back. Thranduil dons a thin smirk, his toes boldly massaging the supple flesh before him. Legolas shakes his head a fraction, as though to say, _not here_ , but they have a word for that, and he neglects to use it. So Thranduil begins to climb, exerting just enough pressure as he goes to make the colour rise in Legolas’ cheeks. 

Elladan’s tale finishes a tad abruptly, his eyes falling on Legolas. That isn’t unusual; Legolas is beautiful and always draws their looks. Thranduil imagines the twins have tried often to lure him in, but Legolas, however coy on the surface, is loyal underneath, and Thranduil keeps a tight leash. Legolas makes an attempt to return the glance but winds up looking away, eyes falling to the table. Elrohir picks up the story before Elrond and Arwen can notice, foolishly uninterested in Thranduil’s heir as they are. 

By the time Thranduil reaches Legolas’ knee, Legolas has given in. His legs spread wantonly for Thranduil’s touch, his delicate fingers gripping the tablecloth. Thranduil slides his foot slowly along Legolas thigh, stopping just before the end to do a loop of it, teasing Legolas to the point of a gentle tremor. Legolas’ tongue leaves his lips, poking out, pink and wet, to trace along the seam, and then draws back into its cavern. When Thranduil finally places the ball of his foot between Legolas’ legs, it’s too much. Legolas fidgets in his chair, causing Elrohir to pause. As Thranduil presses the weight of his foot against Legolas’ tented crotch, Arwen asks, “Are you well?”

Legolas doesn’t quite look at her. His body is tight, taut, clearly trying not to writhe. Thranduil kneads him none too gently, and he says with an impressively level voice, “I fear I may have eaten too much. Perhaps I should return to my room.”

Before Elrond can excuse him, Thranduil jumps in to click his tongue, insisting, “Nonsense. That would be rude. You will stay.” Legolas’ eyes flicker to him. But Legolas says nothing, merely nodding his head in acceptance. Thranduil gives a sudden push, and Legolas grunts, but Thranduil diverts the group by drawling, “Your tale is fascinating, Elrohir. Please. Continue.”

Elrohir obeys, for Thranduil’s command over princes is absolute, and Elrond doesn’t think to correct him. The tale begins where it left off, while Legolas squirms and tries to stop, his desperation clear to a trained eye. 

At first, Thranduil merely kneads his crotch, applying pressure to the rising bulge and bouncing against it, but as Elrohir’s speech goes on, Thranduil becomes increasingly cruel. He presses harder and harder, rocking in a fluid motion. Once, he draws his foot away to trace Legolas’ thigh, but Legolas makes a quiet keening noise, mouth tightly closed, and Thranduil rewards him by returning. Thranduil occasionally changes the direction of his movement. Then he presses so hard that Legolas’ chair scrapes back, and a gasp is forced from his lips. 

Elrond looks over, frowning deeply with concern. He interrupts his son with a raised hand, saying instead, “You truly do not look well, Legolas. Perhaps you should rest.”

Thranduil releases the pressure, though he can see that Legolas is perilously close; he knows that look well: the heavy lids, the blown pupils, the flushed cheeks. Legolas begins to say, “I am fi—”

But he gets no further: Thranduil squeezes at the tip with his toes, and Legolas throws a hand over his mouth to muffle his cry. He bends forward, his golden hair slipping over his shoulders, his eyes shut and his brow drawn together, face contorted in a delicious mix of pleasure and _shame_. His other hand slips below the table to hold Thranduil’s foot against him. If they were alone, Thranduil would purr, _Good boy._

But they’re with an audience, so Thranduil simply watches, feigning as much confusion as the others. Elrond and his children remain quiet. Legolas seems to tremble for a moment, before straightening and making a visible effort to regain himself. When he drops his hand away, his mouth stays open, breathing deep. 

He opens his eyes only a fraction, watching the table, and he asks quietly, “Ada, may I be excused?”

Thranduil, trying his best to reign in his smirk, replies, “Of course. I did not realize you were so effected.” 

Legolas turns next to Elrond, dipping his head in thanks, and Elrond returns the gesture, looking pitifully worried. Arwen wears similar concern, but Elladan and Elrohir appear merely confused. Legolas pulls down the lip of his long tunic before he rises and turns towards the open archway that leads to their guest quarters.

He only makes it half a step before he swoons, falling forward. Chairs scrape back in surprise, but Thranduil is the closest and catches Legolas quickly with an outthrust arm. For a fraction of a second, he’s genuinely fearful. 

But then Legolas looks up at him, and he sees the flash of fire across his son’s eyes. He knows instantly that Legolas has tripped himself on purpose in order to give Thranduil that moment, and as Thranduil helps Legolas up, Legolas whispers in his ear, “I will get you for that.”

They’re apart too soon for Thranduil to reply. He smiles warmly at his son, all too aware of all the eyes on him.

Legolas just gathers himself and leaves.


End file.
